


Royal Pains

by neverbirds



Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: 5+1, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, gratuitous disney references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 00:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverbirds/pseuds/neverbirds
Summary: Elder Price and Connor, amazingly, have something in common: once something is in their head, once a sliver of an idea has wormed its way under their skin, there’s no way to get it out. Connor just cannot get the image out of his mind. It’s there every time he closes his eyes, imprinted on the back of his eyelids. And he figures - well, if he has to endure them anyway, what’s the harm in indulging these idle fantasies from time to time?Or: the five times Elder McKinley wasabsolutely nota damsel in distress, and the one time he didn't have to be.





	Royal Pains

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I've doing prompts over on tumblr and got the prompt 'kiss a frog' from anonymous and it grew and grew into... this? 
> 
> I really hope you guys like it, it was originally supposed to be a cute fluffy couple of thousand words but alas! Angst is fun too. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**1.**

Elder McKinley is many things: pedantic to a fault, stubborn, combative, and just a little hung up on how other people perceive him. He’s the district leader; the winner of his 5th grade spelling bee, a terrible swimmer, a straight A student, and now, to nobody’s surprise but his mother’s, out of the closet. Gay. Queer. Homosexual. Whatever you want to label Connor as, he’s _fine_ with it now.

(Okay, maybe he’s a little bit not fine with it. But that’s an issue for a different day).

There are a few things, however, that Connor is absolutely _not._ He’s not a pansy, a flower, a fairy. He’s not delicate, and okay, _sometimes_ he catches his wrist flopping around limply, but that only happens every so often and Elder Cunningham says that it’s fine and nobody really notices it anyway. Elder Cunningham says a lot of things, usually mildly offensive but good-natured that in their roundabout way do actually make Connor feel quite a bit better about the whole affair. He is _not_ a princess, a damsel in distress – he is _perfectly capable,_ thank you very much, of looking after himself. He was made district leader for a reason – and okay, maybe one of those reasons was that Elder McKinley showed great restraint, a zealous dedication to squashing down parts of himself, making himself malleable to fit the mould of a good Mormon, proved himself to be a hard-working individual, and all that crap. And well, we all know how _that_ turned out. But he is not a weak little kitten, a maiden in need of defending. And do you know what else? He is not – and he repeats, _not_ – madly, wildly in love with Elder Price.

Elder Price is easy on the eyes – that much Connor can admit. He’s all big brown eyes and defined jawline; face chiseled like a Greek God, and his body is – well, he’s nice to look at, is all. Connor may or may not have had a little crush on him, at first. It’s just that his dark eyes are so disarming; he oozes charm out of every pore, he’s charismatic to a fault, and his smile is full of shiny, shiny teeth that are incredibly distracting. Then he opened his mouth, and it all sort of went downhill from there.

Elder McKinley thought that Elder Price was rather wonderful, all things considered. Connor finds him entirely insufferable. He’s barely tolerable, and that’s really only because Elder McKinley finds a pleasant tingling sensation in his stomach every time he looks at that stupid, perfect face. As long as he doesn’t talk, he’s not so bad. Price’s main problem is that he was clearly made to be seen and not heard, but he is completely incapable of knowing what’s good for him. He enjoys the sound of his own voice too much to realise how whiny and grating it is. When he gets particularly impassioned about something, his voice gets all tinny and loud and Connor gets a headache behind his eyeballs.

One of Elder Price’s worst crimes is that he seems to think that Connor is of a particularly weak disposition. A hand on his elbow every so often, on the small of his back when he stumbles, hovering around at dinner time like Connor is going to slice his hand open at any moment, asking him if he’s getting sick every time he so much as coughs. It’s not the most frustrating thing about Price – that would be his insistence on self-sabotaging every chance he gets, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s causing all of his own problems – but it’s definitely up there on Connor’s list of _why I do not enjoy his company in the slightest despite what my Hell dreams seem to think._ There’s an addendum, because Connor is pedantic and likes to make sure all his papers are orderly, that says * _other than how he’s so incredibly handsome, oh my God, is it even legal for somebody to look like that in real life?_

“Elder Price,” he finds himself sighing one day, pain pinpricking in his temple as he rubs his eyes, exasperated. “Stop following me.”

To his credit, Elder Price does look a little startled.

“I’m not,” he says, and he’s an awful liar, completely out of practice and entirely obvious. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“It’s annoying,” Connor tells him, waving his hand as if getting rid of Price would be as easy as batting away a particularly irritating fly. “You’re annoying.”

“I am not,” says Elder Price. Another obvious lie.

“What do you expect to happen? Me to trip face first at any moment? Get ill out of nowhere? Set myself on fire? Fall into the lake?”

“I was thinking more of a lion eating you,” says Price. “Only I don’t think they’d be very interested in just eating skin and bones.”

Elder Price follows him outside, despite Connor’s best attempt to slam the door in his face.

“You are prone to accidents, you know,” says Kevin. “Like last week when you almost fell off Kimbay’s roof. And when you peeled the skin off your thumb instead of the potato. And that time when you got bitten by the scorpion.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” says Connor. “I am a grown man.”

“Never said you did,” says Price, falling into step with him, hands in his pockets, strolling leisurely. He’s so cartoonish, Connor half expects him to start whistling innocently at any moment. He doesn’t, because Kevin might be a lot of things, like completely exhausting, overbearing and egotistical, but he’s not particularly predictable. Just another thing Connor finds bothersome. It would be easier to avoid him if he stuck to a regular schedule, rather than popping up at the most inconvenient times. “Just looking after a friend, I guess.”

“You mean you’re bored,” says Connor.

“Aren’t you?”

Connor pauses, hesitating for just a second.

“No,” he says. “I have plenty of things to do. You’re just getting in the way.”

The universe chooses that exact moment to humiliate Connor in front of possibly the most handsome boy Connor will ever have the misfortune to meet, and God, what is his _life,_ how did he end up falling flat on his face, blood dripping down his forehead, in Kitguli, Uganda of all places? How did he end up looking up at Elder Price’s blurry face, expression indecipherable as his eyes slide in and out of focus? How did he end up as a co-creator of a cult, with a mouthful of dirt, slowly drifting in and out of awareness?

He feels hands on his jaw, warm and calloused, something hot on his face. It takes his brain a moment to catch up with his fall, his hearing impaired until it comes back with force –

“Elder McKinley?” says that whiny, grating voice that Connor dislikes so much.

“Ow,” says Connor, because he can’t think of what else to say. His head hurts _so much._ “Ow, ow, oh my God, fuck, ow.”

“You’re an idiot,” says Price. “And you’re bleeding.”

“Get off me,” Connor insists, and he can hear how his words are slurred. “I’m fine.”

“My God,” says Kevin. “Can you please get that stick out of your ass for two seconds so I can take you to Gotswana? There’s no way you don’t have a concussion. How many fingers am I holding up?”

Connor tries to count them, but it looks like six, and that can’t be right.

“Three,” he guesses, assuming his vision is doubled.

“Don’t try and outsmart me,” says Elder Price, lifting Connor up with those _hands_ of his under his arms. He helps him up until he’s standing upright. He tries to pry Price’s fingers off his upper arms individually, but Price doesn’t budge. He squeezes his left arm and uses his free hand to inspect his face. He tucks two fingers under his chin and lifts it up, moving it from side to side. “You’re all bruised. C’mon, Gotswana will help.”

It isn’t until Connor is sat down in Gotswana’s office that he realises he’s losing little pockets of time; he doesn’t remember walking here, and he certainly doesn’t remember how Price’s hand ended up entangled with his. He pries them apart as soon as he realises and doesn’t feel even a little bit guilty at the look on Kevin’s face as he flexes his hand out. Connor must have been gripping it pretty hard. He can see little moon-shaped indents in his palm.

“I need to stop meeting you like this,” says Gotswana. “It was just last week you fell out of the tree.”

He can practically hear Elder Price’s eyebrows raise.

“I didn’t know that,” he says.

“None of your business,” says Connor, but it comes out more like _nnnv ubusness._

“Okay,” says Elder Price, and Connor knows he’s being condescending, so he makes a half-assed attempt to glare at him, but his heart isn’t in it. “Whatever you say.”

Gotswana puts five stitches in his forehead and Elder Price takes him home, making vaguely encouraging _mm_ noises as he fights with Connor’s determination to make Price’s life as difficult as possible. It’s his fault he’s in this state, somehow. If he didn’t have to look – to look – like _that,_ Connor probably wouldn’t have fallen, quite literally, head over heels in front of him. This is definitely Elder Price’s fault. Most things usually are.

“This is your fault,” he tries to tell Elder Price. Price snorts, and it’s not even unattractive, the jerk.

“Move your damn feet,” says Price. “Or I will be forced to carry you bridal style.”

“You would never,” says Connor, and even through his foggy state of awareness, immediately knows he’s made a mistake. Kevin has never, ever backed down from a challenge before and – and oh, there, Connor’s feet don’t seem to be on the ground anymore.

“I’m not a damsel,” he tells Price, but slings his arms around his neck anyway. It really is a long walk back to the hut, and now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t feel so good.

“You sure about that?”

“Yep,” says Connor. “Yeah. Super sure.”

He can feel Kevin laugh, his chest rising and falling erratically. He mentally adds to his addendum on the list of _why I do not enjoy his company in the slightest despite what my Hell dreams seem to think_ that his laugh is actually quite nice too. Like Connor surprised it out of him.

“I bet you fancy yourself a prince,” Connor tells him, lolling his head forward to rest his cracked forehead on Price’s collarbone. “You’re very dashing. You could be like, a rogue prince, full of angst and rebellion, going on some epic quest against everybody’s will and saving the day anyway.”

Connor knows that Elder Price must be looking at him funny, but he keeps his forehead pressed into Price’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at his vaguely surprised expression.

“Oh,” says Connor, closing his eyes. “I guess you already did that. Only you didn’t get the girl.”

“Yeah,” says Kevin. “That’s not really my thing.”

Connor is a little too out of it to think anything other than _oh_ and _what does that mean?_

“It means none of your business,” says Elder Price. Oh, God, he’s been thinking out loud.

“Sorry,” Connor mutters, lips pressing on Price’s collarbone. It’s incredibly intimate, all things considered, but all Connor can think about is whether or not Price can feel his hot puffs of breath through his t-shirt. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” says Elder Price.

“I just remembered something,” says Connor, trying and failing to lift his head up. “It’s really important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Connor. “I hate you.”

Price pretends to drop him, and Connor only freaks out for a _second,_ but Elder Price laughs like he screamed like a girl or something.

“Put me down,” says Connor. “This is awful. Somebody will see soon.”

“You’re so bothered by what other people think of you,” says Elder Price. “What’s that about?”

“Are you serious right now?” says Connor, because he did just suffer a head injury and it’s possible he misheard or misunderstood. Did _Elder Price_ just say that _Elder McKinley_ is too bothered about his reputation?

“As a heart attack,” says Elder Price.

Connor hits his chest until he finally puts him down. Elder Price brushes the back of his hand against his and Connor thinks for one, ridiculous second that he’s trying to hold his hand.

“I have legs, you know,” says Connor. “There was no need to do that.”

“I was just trying to sweep you off your feet,” Price shrugs, with a little mischievous grin.

“Flirting will get you nowhere,” says Elder McKinley. He thinks a lot of things all at once like _oh my god is he joking or is he serious_ and _hnnnnnng_ and _well, that’d be nice. Imagine if Kevin were a prince - he really would be a good one; handsome, full of himself, with a regal air, like it was his birthright to be better than everybody else - and he would come and save me, carry me bridal style again, and then maybe we would kiss or whatever and it would be kind of amazing_ and Jesus Christ, he hopes he didn’t say any of that out loud.

“You didn’t,” says Elder Price. “Don’t worry.”

Elder McKinley does not enjoy not having complete control over his mouth.

“Your face,” says Elder Price. “You don’t look so good.”

Great. Fantastic. Connor is so glad that he looks like shit in front of _Kevin Price._  

“Your lip -”

And then - oh, and _then_ \- Elder Price leans over and puts his thumb to Connor’s mouth. It stings a little. Price is giving him this _look,_ and usually Connor would know what that _look_ meant, but this is Elder Price, we’re talking about it, and there’s no way.

“That hurts,” says Connor. “Get off.”

Price’s thumb brushes the side of Connor’s jaw, he thinks, maybe, or he might have imagined it? He can’t be sure; he’s not really sure of anything right now. He doesn’t feel so good.

“It’s split,” says Kevin. “Your mouth is all puffy. You look stupid.”

“Your mother looks stupid,” says Connor, because he’s clearly not well in the head. Kevin grins at him, hand still under Connor’s chin, and Elder McKinley thinks he might actually die on the spot.

“Hey,” he says. “I’ll have you know I take after my mother.”

“‘Splains a lot,” says Connor, feeling awfully tired.

Kevin nudges him the rest of the way to the mission hut, expertly dodging Connor’s flailing hands as he tries to bat him off.

“If I were a prince,” says Kevin, when they’re five minutes or so away. “What kind would I be? Rugged and rebellious? Too quiet and sensitive for the job? A strong leader with a fatal flaw?”

“Idiotic and annoying.”

“You really need to work on your insults,” says Elder Price. “The concussion is not a good look for you.”

“I’m fine,” says Connor. “It’s just a scratch.”

Kevin snorts. Connor _knows_ it’s not just a scratch, because it would appear that there are two Elder Price’s next to him. Can you imagine two Elder Prices? Good Lord. The world is barely big enough for one. Kitguli certainly isn’t large enough, that’s for sure. It’s like he’s always bursting at the seams with enthusiasm, emotions and thoughts and feelings that he _has to get out right this second._ For all their similarities, that’s probably the biggest difference. Elder McKinley likes to keep himself to himself, thank you very much. Elder Price - well, Elder Price does not.

But just because he knows that it’s worse than he’s letting on doesn’t mean he’s going to admit it. Not to Elder Price, anyway. Even if Elder McKinley isn’t a damsel, Elder Price really would be a good one; a handsome, altruistic yet egotistical prince. He’s kind of like somebody who’s come from money trying to help the poor. Well-meaning but completely out of touch with reality. Connor doesn’t need somebody like that to pity him.

Price manhandles him into the mission hut, with far too much force considering Connor is actually going willingly. He’s so tired. He could sleep for a week, face down on the couch.

“I can’t let you pass out,” says Kevin with a sigh, hands gripping Elder McKinley’s upper arms too tight. “Sorry.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” says Connor. “Just a headache.”

“Sit down -”

Elder Price wrestles him down onto the sofa, flopping down next to him, the couch sagging in the middle in that way it does, bringing their arms together. It happens all the time, that they get a little cosy, all eight of them. But accidentally brushing past Thomas doesn’t make Connor feel like there’s an electric current running through them both, connecting them in a way that Connor doesn’t understand. It doesn’t feel like Connor’s heart is about to stop at any moment because Elder Price shifts a little and the sensation spreads throughout his arm. It does feel a little like he’s going crazy, though. He really did hit his head pretty hard.

“What’s your favourite Disney movie?” says Connor, because he knows that Price is right and he does have to stay awake, and he can’t seem to get his head off the topic of monarchies and dragons and fantasy lands and epic adventures.

“Beauty and the Beast,” says Elder Price, in a heartbeat. It’s not what Connor expected.

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” says Elder Price. He sounds tired, too, now Connor is paying close attention. His eyes look darker than usual. “I like the songs.”

Connor thinks about it. Price has a temper, that’s for sure, but nothing about him is particularly _Beastly._ If anything, he’s more of a Gaston. Impossibly handsome, full of himself, a gaggle of girls following him everywhere he goes. Fixating on somebody who mostly hates him. He’s totally a Gaston, no question. He even has a Lefou.

“I thought it would be a little more Freudian than that,” says Connor, closing his eyes and wearily accepting that his head is just going to flop onto Elder Price’s shoulder like that.

“What would you have picked, then?”

“I don’t know,” says Connor. “‘m trying to figure it out. S’why I asked.”

“You are so sleepy,” says Elder Price. “It’s adorable.”

“Nothing about me is adorable,” says Elder McKinley, trying to scowl so hard Price can hear it.

“You’re Snow White,” says Elder Price, after a while. It hits Connor like an ice cold punch to the gut.

“Excuse me?”

“You know,” says Kevin, and Connor does lift his head up to glare at him. “The fairest of them all.”

He flicks Connor on the nose. It takes a minute for Elder McKinley to react.

“Oh, you jerk --”

“Oh my God, don’t hurt yourself _more --”_

“Get off me.”

“Never,” says Elder Price.

They’re fighting like schoolchildren, and it takes a while for Connor to realise this is the first time in a long time that he’s smiled like this, smiled properly, like he can’t help it. It’s been a weird day.

But Connor’s tired - so, so tired - and his eyelids droop of their own accord and he’s powerless to stop it. He can feel his nose be squished up in soft cotton and he can smell that smell that is unidentifiable as anything other than _Kevin._

“If you die when you fall asleep,” he hears Elder Price say, and feels a hand on the back of his head. “I am not kissing you.”

Connor can feel himself smirk before he passes out, content to dream about noble steeds, impossible castles, and handsome princes.  
  


**2.**

Connor has a problem. Well, Connor has a lot of problems, but the common denominator is Elder Price.

The nights should be when Connor can escape from his overwhelming presence. It’s finally quiet. It’s peaceful. Elder McKinley was never a particular fan of the night time, but Connor finds it easier now. His Hell dreams are slowly being replaced by something less insidious, less terrifying, but torturous all the same.

It all started when Connor made that stupid comment about Kevin being a prince. It all went wrong when Connor cracked his head open and _let Elder Price carry him bridal style,_ and honestly, Connor doesn’t know if he could physically be more embarrassed. His whole body burns with the memory.

Elder Price and Connor, amazingly, have something in common: once something is in their head, once a sliver of an idea has wormed its way under their skin, there’s no way to get it out. Connor just cannot get the image out of his mind. It’s there every time he closes his eyes, imprinted on the back of his eyelids. And he figures - well, if he _has_ to endure them anyway, what’s the harm in indulging these idle fantasies from time to time?

And fantasise he does. Fairytales of epic proportions, extended narratives, sometimes a whole cast of characters. Elder Price would make a very dashing hero, and he does have a penchant for saving the day. It fits. He imagines Elder Price in a regal uniform; a prince worthy of somebody special, and it’s nice, you know, to imagine that _he’s_ the one who’s special enough.

He feels so childish, but these aren’t like the other fantasies he’s had - furtive hands, aborted movements, faceless, generic bodies, everything quick and shameful - these linger in his mind, slowly living out scenario after scenario, indulging in mentally dressing and undressing Kevin in a dozen different outfits; imagines a hundred different ways for Elder Price to save him. He thinks about it, slowly, carefully, like each image is as precious as the last.

He can imagine it all so vividly; can see a pink-hued sky, a grey and purple castle striking on the skyline; a winged dragon flying around the turrets where Connor is held captive, in a small, dark, plain room that’s filled with colours the moment Elder Price strides through the door. And even though they’re the same height Elder Price somehow seems taller; and Connor would fall into his arms, and it would be picture perfect, their first kiss something out of a fairy tale. It would be nice, he thinks. To be important enough to somebody to be the _one._

Sometimes it’s a little different; sometimes, Elder Price is angry, protective, forceful. He slams Connor into the wall and opens his mouth with his own. Sometimes it’s longing, sometimes it’s wet and filthy. It doesn’t really matter to Connor. All of it feels good to imagine. All of it is entirely unobtainable. It’s safe, in a way. Indulging in these thoughts is a much better alternative to snapping and pushing the idiot into a tree and shutting him up with his mouth.

And he would look so handsome, wouldn’t he? Elder Price is in his full glory. Elder Price saving the day. Saving _Connor._

It’s frustrating. Connor doesn’t want to be a damsel. Isn’t a damsel. Will never _be_ a damsel, but oh, there’s just something about the idea that he can’t forget about.

Tonight he’s thinking about Cinderella. He’s been thinking over and over and over it and it’s the most fitting. Connor, with his evil twin sisters; Elder Price, so far out of Connor’s league it’s not even a little bit funny. And Connor’s _mother,_ good Lord. And they wouldn’t - they don’t - he _can’t_ get the prince. They won’t let him have the prince. Princes aren’t for people like Connor. They’re not for stable boys. And wouldn’t it be nice, to have a fairy godmother, watching out for him, transforming him into something worthy of Elder Price’s attention? To make him better looking, less abrasive, easier to be around, _anything_ to justify the way Kevin looks at him.

But then he remembers the story about Elder Price visiting Orlando and meeting Cinderella and throwing up on her shoes because it was too hot and he’d had too many sweets and he told her that her dress was ugly because he was so embarrassed, and it makes him laugh, and feel all sorts of awful feelings like affection and fondness, horrible sensations bubbling behind his ribcage as he tries to consolidate the notion of a regal Elder Price and the Kevin who cried because Nabulungi killed a spider for him and made them hold a funeral. To be fair, Kevin was also crying _before_ she killed the spider. Not particularly heroic at all -- and yet, here Connor is, his hand drifting slowly down his chest, under the waistband on his boxers, fingers itching, imaging unpeeling every layer of Kevin’s ridiculous costume like an onion --

He puts the pillow over his face and silently screams into it.  
  


**3.**

Connor is not a weak little kitten, but he certainly feels like it. Well, maybe not a kitten. At least kittens can get some fucking sleep. No, feeling like _absolute death_ is probably a better descriptor.

“I’m fine,” he tells Elder Price. He snorts in response. _Condescending jerk,_ says Connor’s brain. Connor tries to smirk, but that leads into more retching. “Oh, God.”

“Sure you are,” says Kevin. “Since you feel so on top of the world right now, how about we go for a run or something?”

“Ugh,” says Connor, waving his hand as if Kevin is a particularly annoying fly. Or a moth, maybe, and Connor is the light that Kevin just keeps stupidly bumping into, even though it only causes him pain. And bickering. Can’t forget the bickering. “I can handle it.”

Kevin sighs, and it’s as exaggerated as everything he does is. Shoulders heaving - broad, _strong,_ shoulders, that leads into those arms, and oh, Elder McKinley, stop it. _Stop it right now_. Still, if he’s dying, at least he’ll go out thinking about something nice.

“You really need to stop saying that,” says Kevin. “You’re nowhere near as good at lying than you think you are.”

 _Yeah, for you, maybe_. Kevin is so simple, everything so black and white, it’s not entirely unsurprising that he doesn’t understand the nuances that lying depends on. He doesn’t respond to a quirk of a lip, an eyebrow, a significant look. He’s simply, and Connor means this in a nice way, a little bit too stupid to pick up on stuff like that. He sees right through Connor. It unnerves him, throws him off balance, but he doesn’t mind it so much. Not anymore, anyway.

“Seriously,” says Connor. “I can look after myself, you know. I’m really not that ill.”

“You honestly look like you’re about to throw up.”

“That’s because I am,” he says, and Kevin dutifully hands over the vomit bucket. It’s made of wood, and Connor thinks they’ll probably have to burn it after this. He retches into the bucket until he’s sure his intestines have come out of his mouth. “Just getting it out of my system.”

Two days later, Connor has to maybe admit that he actually can’t look after himself after all.

“Okay,” he tells Elder Price, who is gingerly perched on the end of his bed. “You know, I don’t feel so good.”

 _You don’t say,_ says Kevin’s eyebrows.

Kevin places the back of his hand on Connor’s forehead, and it’s like electricity thrums through him, just for half a second, but it’s enough for Connor’s breath to hitch, his voice cracking a little when he says -

“I’m dying, Elder Price. Truly dying. What should I put on my tombstone?”

“Here lies Elder Connor McKinley, the first person in history to whine himself to death,” says Kevin. “You’re not dying. You’re just melodramatic.”

“Pot calling the kettle,” says Connor, and then starts coughing again.

“Lazy comeback,” Kevin comments, as if he’s on a panel giving a score. “A D for effort.”

Connor half-heartedly reaches out to hit him on the arm. He has to sit up a little to do it, but his head spins alarmingly. Kevin reaches over and pushes his shoulders down, then cups his face, forcing his head back onto the pillow. And then - and then, he leans forward, and Connor thinks, _oh God oh God oh, no_ , but Kevin reaches past his mouth and kisses him on the forehead.

“Um,” says Connor.

“That’s what my sisters did when I was sick,” says Kevin. “Even now. Well, until, you know.”

“I know,” says Connor, trying to mask the surprise on his face. Kevin never talks about his family. He doesn’t even know how many siblings he has, or any of their names. Connor talks about his family all the time, because he does a mean impression of the twins, and it’s cathartic for him to loosen up about all that negativity in his life. Uganda is liberating like that. He’s been born again, then snorts at the phrasing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” says Connor, and Kevin leans back. Connor’s breathing is raspy, and he’s glad he’s ill enough to brush it away as a symptom. Maybe it is, but that’s a different kind of sickness. Love sickness, his brain says helpfully, only it’s not very helpful at all. Connor is _not_ lovesick, okay? He’s just not. His appreciation for Kevin’s looks does not extend anywhere near his personality. It’s the fever talking. “You really don’t have to look after me. The kids -”

“Kimbay’s covering it,” Kevin shrugs. Connor feels very tired, and can feel his eyes sliding shut of their own accord. “Somebody needs to look after you.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” Connor insists. “Seriously. I’m good. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Just a mild bug or something. It’ll be over soon.”

It is not over soon. On day five, Connor has slipped into a delirium. Everyone is finally starting to get worried about it - and Elder Price, he’s pieced together from overheard conversations, is very smug that he was right all along - but nobody comes to visit other than Kevin. Nobody wants to get sick, too, but Kevin is unafraid and Connor isn’t going to question it. He’s quite literally going insane, and even Elder Price’s company is comforting.

He starts seeing words as colours, and he knows he sounds crazy, but he can’t stop thinking about it. Arnold is grey; Nabulungi is yellow, and Asmeret is a deep, rich purple. Gotswana is green. Elder Church is brown; Neeley is red.

“What colour am I?”

Kevin looks at him like he’s grown two heads. Maybe he has. His headache is excruciating.

“Green,” he says.

“Very funny,” says Connor. At least, he thinks he says that. He can’t be sure. “You should be a comedian.”

Kevin hands over the bucket. It’s like he has a sixth sense for when Connor is about to throw up. It unnerves him, but he can’t really complain when all of his insides forcefully exit his body.

“I spoke to Gotswana earlier,” says Kevin. “He told me he prescribed you to shut the fuck up.”

“You’re so charming,” says Connor, then immediately regrets his words when he gets flashes of Elder Price suited up in his royal uniform, medals decorating the lapels, sword in hand. He coughs, and even he isn’t convinced it’s from the life-threatening disease. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Kevin laughs, just a little, that mischievous grin of his lightening his features, and Connor’s stomach swoops alarmingly.

“Vomit bucket,” he demands, and then immediately coughs out bile. Somehow he doesn’t even care that Price is seeing him at his absolute worst. It’s hard to care about anything when you’re sure any word you utter might be your last. “Ugggh.”

Price’s face is surprisingly open and soft. Connor expected, at minimum, a wrinkled and disgusted nose, perhaps an eyebrow or two raised. He leans over and brushes the hair off his forehead and he can _feel_ how sticky and wet and matted it is. Elder Price doesn’t even look a little bit grossed out.

“Why are you here,” he asks, and it comes out meaner than expected, and there, oh, _there’s_ the frown Connor expected. It’s just that nobody else will come near him, both because he’s sweaty and probably smells and is prone to vomiting on anybody who gets in his way. Church is sleeping on the couch for the week so he doesn’t have to breath in the same air that Connor coughed in.

“Fine,” says Price, standing up abruptly. “Sorry for caring.”

“Wait,” says Connor, and lets his fingers circle around Price’s wrist before he can leave. “Don’t actually go.”

Elder Price gives him an indecipherable look, but sits down on the end of the bed gingerly anyway. Connor is a little too out of it to justify why he hasn’t let go of Price’s wrist. If anything, he holds on tighter.

“You look really awful,” says Price, carefully. “Like, truly appalling.”

“You’re a wonderful human being,” says Connor. “So kind and caring. You always know exactly the right thing to say to a boy.”

He doesn’t think about how Price actually is being kind and caring, and how Connor kind of thinks he is maybe a wonderful human being after all, despite being the absolute _worst_. He’s full of contradictions, but he’s at the very least interesting for it. It’s the fever, he tells himself. He’s delusional if he thinks that Elder Price is anything more than tolerable at best.

“You’re royal blue,” says Connor.

“Royal, huh?”

“Yeah,” says Connor. “Royal.”

“Okay,” says Kevin, and leans further forward. “You’re blue too, I think. Different though. Like your eyes.”

Connor thinks he might actually choke to death on bile.

Oh, it’s so nice to think about, that Elder Price likes his eyes. He doesn’t have to like anything else about him - would rather he didn’t, in all honesty and God, why does Kevin make everything so _hard?_ \- but it would be a lovely thing, for Elder Price to think he has nice eyes.

Jesus Christ, this fever is ruining his life.

Kevin stays by his bedside for two more days before his fever breaks. He doesn’t die. Life goes on. Gotswana says he’s lucky to be alive, but he is prone to exaggeration on the odd occasion. Connor is pretty certain he just had a particularly nasty bug that took a while to get out of his system, what with the muggy heat and lack of water and medical supplies and everything. But Kevin - who is now suffering from the very same illness - claims he’s caught the plague.

Connor didn’t die, but he sits by Elder Price’s bedside and listens to him whine for four days straight, and he kind of wishes he did.  
  


**4.**

It’s been a couple of months since the Illness Incident, and Connor feels as right as rain. Trust Elder Price to ruin his good mood.

They haven’t argued for a while, actually. In fact, pretty much since Connor spent a week bent over Kevin’s bedside with a cool, wet cloth pressed to his forehead, things have been a-okay between them. Kind of. Mostly.

“Will you fucking stop,” says Connor.  

“No,” says Kevin, firmly. He doesn’t elaborate. Connor feels like pushing him over.

“I hate you,” says Connor.

“Be a little more original,” says Kevin, rolling his eyes.

He’s been watching Connor all day, and it’s very distracting. Connor can feel Elder Price’s eyes follow him around the room, and whenever he catches his eye – which is a lot, because Connor refuses to be intimidated – Kevin just gives him a dark look and stares back. Connor has things to do. He doesn’t need this.

“What is your problem?”

“I just have a feeling,” says Kevin. “Something bad is gonna happen today.”

“Kevin? Do me a favour, when we go home, go on some anti-anxiety meds.”

“It’s not that,” Kevin insists, and follows Connor when he tries to walk away, falling into step with him, hands sheepishly shoved into his pockets. “I know what anxiety feels like.”

“So what, then?” says Connor. “Hell dream?”

“Of sorts,” says Kevin. “They’re not always Hell dreams, you know. Sometimes they’re just nightmares.”

“Do not,” says Connor, giving him a side-eyed look. “Lecture me about Hell dreams.”

“That’s fair,” says Kevin, and it suddenly occurs to Connor that maybe Elder Price doesn’t want to fight with him. He might be genuinely concerned, good Lord. That doesn’t mean that Connor isn’t already at his breaking point, frustrated at Elder Price for – well, for being Elder Price.

“Dream about me a lot?” he says, airily, trying to get a rise out of him.

“No,” says Kevin, flatly. “I don’t.”

“Then why me?”

“You _know_ why,” says Kevin. Connor isn’t sure where he’s walking to, so he slows down to a stop and considers Elder Price for a second, two seconds.

“Because I’m a pathetic little damsel?”

“Would you stop with that?”

Connor wasn’t even aware that he’d talked about this enough for Kevin to be wishing he would stop talking about it. Elder Price is an idiot, so he probably wouldn’t even remember a few innocuous comments about Connor’s aversion to being treated like any sort of helpless princess. He doesn’t pick up on things like that. He doesn’t catalogue information like Connor does. He breezes through life, unaffected by anything and everything. It’s infuriating to watch. Everything is so easy for him, yet he acts likes the most hard done by person in the world.

“Why do you have to be so frustrating all the time?” says Connor. “It’s exhausting.”

“It’s honestly amazing to me how hypocritical you are,” says Kevin, with wide, beautiful eyes. He narrows those beautiful eyes and gives Connor a scorching look that does funny things to Connor’s stomach. “And yet you profess that I’m the least self-aware person in Kitguli.”

“This conversation is going nowhere,” Connor declares. “I’m done with you.”

He knows it’s too harsh the second it comes out of his mouth. He can practically see Kevin’s ears droop. But he’s not one for apologising – has only done it maybe a handful of times in his whole entire life, and that was mostly false apologies for his sinful homosexual ways – so he turns and walks away without a word.

He feels bad about it all day, but not enough to actually do anything about it. So he pretends like everything is fine, like his insides aren’t all tied up in knots, and ignores the nagging sensation in his chest and brain that feel suspiciously like guilt. Connor hates feeling guilty, so he bites Church’s head off and kicks the wall when he retreats into his bedroom. He’s wound up and angry and tense and a thousand other emotions that Connor doesn’t have words for. He’s not so great with feelings. He needs to get it out of his system, and he knows exactly who his prey is.

He doesn’t _say_ anything, though, when he walks into the living room and Elder Price doesn’t even look at him at all. He’s not disappointed or put out or anything like that. He’s just not. But he’s not going to strike first. That’s how you end up in the wrong. No, he’s practiced this game well with Elder Price. Wait for him to explode first, let yourself be the collateral damage in his self-destructive wake, and then – well, and then:

“Are you cooking tonight?”

“Clearly,” says Connor, with four onions resting on his arm and in the crook of his elbow.

“Hm,” says Kevin, and then doesn’t say anything else.

“Why? Afraid I’m going to fall into the tiny pot of boiling water?” 

“A little,” says Kevin, and Connor is _very_ aware of everybody else in the room. Thomas, Davis, Kalimba, Church, Asmeret and Nabulungi are all watching them warily. It’s been a while, Connor thinks, since they’ve argued, and he supposes it’s been even longer since they did it in front of people. They’ve been getting on, which is probably a huge relief to everyone in the village.

“I am not some fragile little flower,” says Connor.

“I know that,” says Kevin, and Connor starts chopping the onions with far too much force.

“Elders,” Nabulungi says, in her best impression of somebody authoritative. Bless her heart, she’s far too sweet for her own good and even Neeley stopped being afraid of her a good while ago. “You are being childish.”

“I’m not,” says Connor. He brings the knife down on the table methodically, _thunk thunk_. He’s probably leaving grooves in the wood. “I’m an adult. That’s the problem. Elder Price doesn’t seem to understand that I am twenty years old and I’m not a child who is about to play with fire just to find out if it’s hot or not.”

He glances up at Elder Price. He looks furious. _Good,_ thinks Connor. He’s waiting for Kevin to snap. He needs Kevin to snap so he can snap back. Chopping the onions into mush isn’t helping. It’s only making his eyes sting.

“Can we not go back to when you guys were getting along?”

“Don’t bother, Kalimba,” says Davis. “They’re hopeless.”

Connor is not a damsel, he is _not_ weak, he is not he is not he is not -

“ _Fuck –”_

Kevin has shot up out of the chair before Connor has even processed that he just _touched a boiling hot pan, ow ow ow_ and his whole hand is bright red. He accidentally knocks the pot over in his haste to pull his hand away and spills boiling water all over the floor and his legs.

“Get away from me,” he hisses. Elder Price does not get away from him, just hovers his hand uselessly, a pained expression on his face. “Seriously, Kevin, fuck off.”

“Get over yourself,” says Kevin, seeming to dither for a moment, before reaching out and grabbing his arm, twisting it painfully until he can see Connor’s outstretched hand. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

Connor has genuinely never seen Elder Price so angry, and Connor has given him a lot to be angry about before now. It’s kind of really, really hot actually, because nobody can deny that Elder Price is devastatingly handsome and _Connor_ is the one who wound him up like that, made the tips of his ears red, make his eyes so intense and his mouth so hard. Connor wants to kiss it until it softens and becomes pliable and hot and wet under his. He doesn’t. He tells him to go fuck himself instead.

“Are you okay?” says Asmeret, genuinely sounding concerned. “Gotswana –“

“Has seen enough of me,” says Connor. “It’s only a burn. It’ll heal.”

His legs feel like they’re on fire. He’s afraid to go into his room and inspect the damage. He’s actually very afraid, because the burns on his hand is already starting to blister, and Kevin is frowning down at it, as if the sheer force of his irritation can make them go away. He snatches his hand back and cradles it to his chest, out of the way of prying fingers.

“I’m going to go – run it under water, I guess,” and heads out of the door where nobody can see the tears pinpricking the corners of his eyes. He slams it behind him and isn’t even the least bit surprised when he hears it creak open immediately after.

He’s not going to run it under water, because he’s not wasteful and they don’t have a lot, but _maybe_ he could dunk it in the lake, maybe that will help, because it _hurts_ like nothing has hurt him before. He’s so angry, at Elder Price and himself and his parents and Uganda and even God, if he’s still up there, and he refuses to cry but here he is anyway, holding back tears like some sort of _girl._

“Elder McKinley –“

“Don’t call me that,” he says. “Please leave me alone.”

He can hear his voice wavering, cracking under the pressure of years’ worth of pent up emotion; frustration and sadness and self hatred, consuming him from the inside out. He cannot believe himself right now. He’s almost crying. He hasn’t cried since he was eleven. This isn’t who he is. This isn’t who he’s ever been, and this is all Elder Price’s fault.

And when was the last time he said please, anyway?

“I won’t,” says Kevin. “You know that.”

He does. What’s the point in arguing? He’s never going to change, and Connor certainly has no plans to, either. This is how it’s always going to be, between them, from now until the end of time, or maybe just the end of whatever-it-is they’re still doing here in Uganda – whichever comes first. Connor will pine, Kevin will fuss over him, and Connor will both love and hate the attention all at once. He doesn’t _want_ this. He doesn’t want to be the person Elder Price thinks he is. He doesn’t want to be anybody anymore. He just wants to survive, and he wants to survive on _his_ terms, and he’s so sick and tired of everything. He wants to go home.

“Stop worrying about me,” says Connor.

“Elder McKinley,” says Kevin, softly, with softer eyes. “I’m never going to stop worrying about you.”

Connor doesn’t burst into tears. He doesn’t start hysterically crying, the way Elder Price does, all snotty and hiccupping. But his eyes well over and the lump in his throat is too much and one, two, several tears stream down his face. He doesn’t wipe them away, doesn’t acknowledge it, just stares straight back at Elder Price.

“Oh,” says Elder McKinley.

“You keep insisting that you don’t need help with anything,” says Kevin. “But everybody needs help with stuff. That’s why we’re here. To help people.”

“To help _other_ people,” says Connor. “I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“Will you just shut up, for once in your life?” says Kevin. He takes a step forward, right up in Connor’s personal space. Connor doesn’t back up, doesn’t move at all, just appreciates the hard, mean glint in Kevin’s eyes and stands there, dumbly, waiting for Kevin’s next move. “I am so sick of hearing you say that.”

“So leave me alone,” says Connor. “If you’re so sick of me, why do you insist on stalking me?”

“Because I _like_ you,” says Kevin, and Connor can’t read his expression at all. He realises that the lump in his throat is his heart lurching. He feels like he’s going to vomit it out, right at Kevin’s feet, presenting it to him still beating on the ground, ready and waiting for Elder Price to step on it. “How do you not get that by now?”

He wishes he didn’t. Connor wishes that Kevin didn’t like him at all, wishes he didn’t smile at him the way he does, wishes they’d never met, only he doesn’t at _all,_ is the problem.

“I don’t want you to like me,” is what Connor ends up saying. His hands hurt. He’s still crying. His legs are aching with pain and he needs to retreat, hide, get _away_ from here so he can lick his wounds in peace. The problem is that Elder Price won’t let him. Connor could probably walk to the ends of the Earth and Kevin would be hot on his heels the whole way. Connor doesn’t understand why, doesn’t understand why Kevin seems so obsessed with him, doesn’t know what it is about him that’s gotten so under Kevin’s skin.

On the contrary, Connor knows _exactly_ what it is about Kevin that affects him so much.

“Tough shit,” says Kevin. He steps even further forward, so they’re almost nose to nose, and Kevin looks determinedly over Connor’s shoulder before leaning into and wrapping his arms around his neck. Connor doesn’t move, doesn’t reciprocate, doesn’t do anything at all.

“Don’t pity me,” he says, somewhere in Kevin’s shoulder. Kevin doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let go, and Connor just stands there limply, stupidly, as he cries into Kevin’s t-shirt. “I don’t need you.”

“I know you don’t,” says Kevin, his words brushing over Connor’s ear, the skin behind his neck, and Connor practically melts out of his arms into a gooey puddle on the floor. God, he _hates_ this.

Connor pulls away.

“I want to go home,” he says, and Elder Price looks like he might as well have just slapped him across the face.

“You are home,” says Kevin.

Connor just stares at him, his mouth cracked and parted open, his eyes puffy and his face shining streams of tears in the fading light.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“If you say _I’m fine_ one more time I’m going to -”

“What, Kevin? What are you going to do about it?”

Connor is convinced, for one, beautiful, terrifying moment, that Elder Price is going to kiss him. He doesn’t, but he does lean forward and cup Connor’s face in both his hands. He’s stopped crying, but he’s stopped breathing, too. Kevin’s hands are so - well, they’re _Kevin’s,_ and that’s sort of all he needs to know.

“I will kill you,” says Kevin, very seriously. “With my bare hands.”

He’s not going to tell Kevin how incredibly attractive he looks right now. He’s not going to tell him that he’s thinking about how Elder Price is surprisingly strong and has these _arms_ and the idea of Kevin _using_ those arms, those _hands_ to - well. Not the time or place, he reminds himself.

“Get off me,” Connor says instead. Kevin complies, dropping his arms but not stepping back at all. Their chests are practically touching.

“Your hand -”

“I wish you would hate me,” Elder McKinley interrupts him. He’s been trying so hard _,_ since day three or four, to make Elder Price hate him. Having his constant attention is so - so - _infuriating._ He latched onto him like a leech and Connor didn’t understand why, still doesn’t understand, because all he’s ever done is bite and scratch and bark orders and talk back to him. He’s not sure if he’s ever even been nice to him without Elder Price being nice first. At first it was because Elder Price didn’t reciprocate these awful, gooey, _girly_ feelings, because it was easier to push Kevin away than it was to let him break his heart. Connor doesn’t even know why he’s still doing it, why he’s still pushing him away, when Elder Price has proven time and time again that Connor is fighting a losing battle.

“Yeah,” says Kevin. “I know,” as if it’s as simple as that.

“But you don’t.”

“Of course not,” says Kevin. He’s giving him that unreadable look he gives him sometimes, the one that Connor either doesn’t understand or Kevin’s been practicing because usually you can read every single thought that runs through his head on his face. “Why would I?”

Connor starts laughing, and doesn’t stop for a while.

“I need to go bandage my hands,” says Connor, eventually. He kind of wants Kevin to do it. Hold his hand delicately, wrap it with care, press his lips to it, kissing it better. Crouched down in front of him, and Connor could put his hands in hair as he worked and - oh, he is so fucked. “I’ll be fine.”

Connor thinks Kevin’s eyeball might actually pop out of his head.

“I mean,” says Connor, with a sigh. “It hurts. Do you want to - do you want to come with me while I dress it?”

It’s a concession. It’s the only one he knows how to give.

“Yeah,” says Kevin, and clears his throat. He steps out of Connor’s space and it’s like a spell has been lifted; the weight of the world removed from his shoulders without even realising it was there in the first place. “Yes. Okay.”

It’s the best he can do. Kevin stands by the wall and watches Connor’s hands the whole time, glowering, making Connor nervous and self-conscious, but he doesn’t let it show, just works slowly and methodically.

Connor has a past history of playing with fire. Lingering looks in locker rooms, watching the waiter too carefully, aimlessly scrolling websites that would have his mother in tears, Steve. Elder Price is no exception. It just seems fitting that he got burned.  
  


**5.**

It’s Connor’s birthday. Or at least, they think it’s Connor’s birthday. It’s very easy to forget what day of the week it is.

This is really quite unfortunate, he thinks when he wakes up. He hates his birthday. He just wants it to be a quiet affair - he would allow maybe _one_ rousing chorus of the birthday song, but really he just wants an early night and to pretend he’s not getting older. It’s a grim reminder of the passage of time. They really haven’t got all that long left, here. It’s looming over them like a stormcloud they’re not acknowledging.

It’s making all of them antsy, especially Elder Price. They still have plenty of time - months and months, but it’s January and they’ll be leaving this year. He’s been getting all motherly and strange with everyone. His anxiety is probably visible from the moon, he thinks, as he drags himself out of bed toward the living area. Kevin is there already, and Connor thinks he might have been there all night.

“Oh,” says Kevin, wringing his hands. “Happy birthday?”

“Thanks,” says Connor, and offers him a small smile, because he’s feeling nice this morning. It _is_ his birthday, and he might as well enjoy it a little bit. “What are you doing?”

“Oh - tidying,” Kevin shrugs, turning away from him and unfolding, then refolding the blanket.

“Right,” says Connor, and doesn’t understand why it’s awkward. It’s not usually awkward.

“Because it’s your birthday,” Kevin elaborates.

“I know,” says Connor. Kevin gives him a strange look, almost indecipherable, but vaguely affectionate. It makes Connor’s heart flutter in ways that he will only indulge in today as a birthday present to himself. Tomorrow, Connor promises himself, he’ll go back to pretending to hate Elder Price. He has to keep up appearances, anyway. Nobody can know about his little - _problem,_ because the walls seem to talk here, and within minutes Elder Price would find out about it and that would be all sorts of mortifying. Kevin would probably force himself to have a painful, _painful_ conversation about it, everything would be awkward forever, and Connor would have to buy himself a one way ticket home. It’s just - not today, he thinks. He is twenty one years old today. He’s going to have his first (kind of) legal drink, he’s going to enjoy himself, and he’s going to let his eyes wander.

The rest of the day passes in a muggy heat that breaks into a light drizzle by late afternoon. It passes like any other day. There’s a few mumbled happy birthdays, a card signed by everybody and a photo of Nabulungi, Kevin, Connor and Thomas from Nabulungi’s polaroid camera. It makes Connor’s heart melt. He catches Kevin’s eye while he’s still holding the picture and scowls at him. Kevin sticks his tongue out, and Connor can feel his traitorous lips quirk in response. Then Arnold coughs and Connor remembers where he is. Church is giving him that all-knowing look he’s had ever since Connor first had a Hell dream in front of him, _years_ ago now, and oh _God,_ Connor is getting old. 

“I’m old,” he declares to the room.

“I am two years older than you,” says Nabulungi’s voice, muffled somewhere in Arnold’s lap. “Also, don’t say that in front of Kimbay.”

“I would never,” says Connor, making a cross over his heart. He hears a snort somewhere in the room but can’t be bothered to lift his head up from Thomas’ shoulder to find out who made the noise. “But the point remains. I’m old.”

“You look great for your wizened old age,” Kevin tells him. “What’s your secret?”

“The blood of virgins,” says Connor, without missing a beat. “I bathe at midnight every full moon.”

“Naked?”

At this, Connor does lift his head up to glare at him. He can feel Thomas’ shoulders shake imperceptibly.

“Why?” says Connor, because it’s his _birthday,_ and he’s allowed to humour Kevin today. Maybe. Just a little bit. “Want to join?”

It’s worth it for the look on Kevin’s face. He kind of wishes they were alone so he could laugh at him more, maybe press a little further, but then he remembers how every time they’re alone Connor’s brain decides to torture him with flashing images of Kevin in various royal costumes, sometimes on a horse, sometimes not (because - not that he would ever admit it - Connor is a little bit afraid of horses, and it kind of ruins the mood), and then Connor forgets everything he was saying and will, inevitably, make a fool of himself in front of the cutest boy in school. Either that, or Connor gets all prickly and Kevin gets all - well, _Kevin,_ and that doesn’t end well for anyone.

“What’s the plan?” says Connor, even though he knows exactly what the plan is.

“Alcohol,” Arnold confirms. Connor smiles, a little, at how predictable the two of them are. When in doubt, beer. It’s clearly Kevin’s favourite way to rebel, and he runs his hands through his hair a lot when he’s drunk and it gets all dishevelled and dirty and flops in his face. Connor has long since passed the point where he can deny that he enjoys seeing the unflappable Kevin Price fully flapped. “Like, a lot of people are coming over later.”

It’s nice, Connor thinks. His birthdays were always so small, such quiet affairs. Connor didn’t have many - if any - friends. He knows this is something he and Elder Price have in common. It was usually just him and his mother and his sisters. It was boring and depressing. This, however - he’s surrounded by half the people he loves in the whole world, and the other half are coming over later. He’s _liked_ here. It’s an entirely new feeling, one he hadn’t really fully appreciated over the past year-and-whatever, and he can feel some of the ever-present tension bleed out of his shoulders and his chest swell with something that feels suspiciously like affection. Connor doesn’t get affectionate. It’s not really his style, so he pushes Thomas with one arm and stands up from the couch to alleviate some of the overwhelming feelings pushing against his ribcage.

Arnold, despite his reputation, was not lying: a lot of people come over. Connor gets delightfully buzzed. So does everybody else, but it’s hard to decipher how other people are doing while the world looks sideways.

He can’t _help_ it, he watches Kevin all night. To the point where Church has to corner him and tell him to stop staring, because people are starting to notice. But Connor _still_ doesn’t stop; he’s just - he’s a presence, a character, somebody who lights up the room and knows exactly the kind of effect he has on people. He’s magnetic and charming and the life and soul of every party. He’s devilishly handsome and so, so easy on the eyes. Elder Price is a lot of things, and all of them appeal to Connor’s morbid curiosity. He’s an oddity, that’s for sure. It’s natural for his eyes to follow him wherever he goes.

The thing is, Kevin is a very touchy-feely drunk. He’s been on the receiving end of Kevin’s wandering hands too many times for Connor to handle like an adult. He doesn’t particularly like being touched against his will. Connor doesn’t mind being tactile, but he likes to initiate it. For example, he doesn’t like when Kevin startles him by appearing behind him and snaking his arms around his torso. Elder McKinley needs time to process exactly when and where he and Kevin make physical contact, so he can catalogue it for later when he’s indulging in his idle fantasies, late at night where nobody can interrupt the worlds, the palaces and landscapes, that Connor has built inside his mind.

So Elder Price is a touchy drunk, only he’s not touched Connor at all. Not once. He can feel Kevin’s eyes follow him whenever his back is turned, but he doesn’t come over at all, doesn’t sneak up next to him to whisper something particularly mean or particularly soppy and sentimental, whatever mood the alcohol has swayed him. And this wouldn’t bother Connor all that much - really, it wouldn’t, because Connor appreciates peace and quiet, and peace and quiet and Elder Price do not mix well - but Kevin appears to be taking turns kissing everybody on the mouth at least once. Connor’s insides burn every time he turns and catches Kevin’s lips locked onto somebody else’s. He knows that Kevin doesn’t mean it. He knows that this is just how Kevin is. But if he’s making the rounds, that means that Connor is a potential target for Kevin’s eager mouth (and, oh, how he wishes his brain hadn’t said that), and that is not going to end well for anybody.

Eventually, Kevin gets drunk enough to waddle over and pursue Connor. Connor won’t give up without a fight, however, and wanders outside into the cooling night air to shake him off. He shouldn’t be surprised that Kevin follows him outside, but he is. Kevin has spent half of the night ignoring him, after all.

“You’ve spent half the night ignoring me,” Connor tells him, without turning around. “And now you’re following me like a puppy.”

“Woof,” says Kevin, then laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Connor turns around in time to see Kevin spill some of his beer down himself, but Connor doesn’t think that Kevin has noticed. Connor lets his eyes flicker down to Kevin’s chest one, mesmerising time, and then blinks himself back into awareness of his surroundings. It’s hot, the kind of hot it gets at night, and there’s a lot of people and a lot of noise. “It’s your birthday.”

“It is,” Connor agrees, trying to focus on Kalimba walking past with Michaels instead of Kevin’s stupid eyes and stupid face and stupid, whiny mouth. He tries to pick out bits of Nabulungi’s conversation; the noises of bugs in the air, laughter and cursing - but, oh, he _really_ can’t stop staring at how Kevin’s mouth makes words. “Um. Let’s go for a walk?”

“Sure,” says Kevin, easily enough.

Connor isn’t exactly sure why he suggested it. _You’re drunk,_ says his brain. _Idiot._ And oh, he is, now he thinks about it. The world is wobbly and the ground is a lot more interesting than usual, one foot in front of the other, and it takes a lot of concentration to try and walk in a straight line. He’s focusing so hard on his shoes that he doesn’t hear whatever Kevin is trying to say. But Connor’s inebriated instincts have told him that walking towards the lake is exactly what they need to do right now, that he needs to be alone with Kevin for whatever it is that he clearly wants to say to Connor, so he tries to listen.

“ -- you’re just,” he catches Kevin saying. Connor doesn’t think that he’s noticed that Connor hasn’t been listening. “You’re like, you, you know?”

“I’m aware,” Connor confirms.

“Yeah,” says Kevin, his shoulder knocking into Connor’s. He can’t walk in a straight line either, Connor realises. Maybe a midnight walk to the lake was a bad idea, but the sky is clear and the bugs seem to have made themselves scarce - Uganda’s birthday present - and the moonlight is illuminating every leaf on every tree, and the bright green grass is the colour of olives at this time of night, and everything looks incredibly pretty. Even prettier than Kevin, which is how he ends up in the lake.

He just takes one, accidental step forward, not realising how long they’ve been walking, not being aware, not being sober enough to realise that what is in front of him is not hard, solid ground, but in fact a deep, unending body of water.

When he opens his eyes, he’s not sure if he’s upside down or not. It’s not the kind of lake with a shallow edge; he walked right off the ground and into the deep end. He can see silvery fish, moonlight bouncing off them, and plenty of reeds. One of them appears to be up his nose, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. He accidentally swallows water when his body decides it _absolutely must take a breath right this second,_ and Connor realises with a vague awareness that he’s going to die.

For all of Connor’s fantasies of life-threatening moments, of being in mortal peril, waiting to be saved, it’s really not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s nothing like Connor imagined. It’s a lot more frightening. He’s going to die, he realises. _Worst birthday ever,_ he thinks, and then _this is going to kill Elder Price._  

Then, the world fades to black. It’s pleasantly numb, and Connor has just enough time to think about how people were right, drowning is quite a nice way to go.

He’s not dead, is the next thing he realises. Or - well, he might be. He’d feel _really_ silly if it turned out that Mormons were right all along. Will he be the ruler of his own Heavenly Kingdom after all? Probably not, he reasons. He gave up pretending he wasn’t gay a long time ago, and from everything he’s been told, everything he’s had beaten into him since he was twelve, God doesn’t take too kindly to that sort of thing.

But he comes to, eventually, because he can feel real, solid, warm hands on his cheeks, and a vague buzzing noise that he tries to swat away. Something grabs his wrist instead, something wet and warm, and it’s jarring enough that Connor dares to open his eyes. And oh, there he is, there’s Kevin, dripping wet and angry, hair plastered stupidly onto his forehead, shaking and saying something, saying a lot of things that Connor can’t hear.

It rolls, then, his stomach, his chest, all of his insides, and everything feels _wrong,_ like it needs to come out, like everything inside him shouldn’t be there. It all comes out as water, making him retch, and Kevin rolls him over so he’s face down, Kevin’s arms holding him up under his shoulders, and he places his cheek on Connor’s back. Connor throws up, over and over, until only a trickle of water is left dribbling down his chin. Kevin rolls him over again, placing his hand on Connor’s forehead, stroking his wet hair, his head in Kevin’s lap.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” says Kevin, eventually, and that’s exactly what he expected Kevin to say. It makes Connor smile.

“Clearly,” he says, and coughs again, but nothing comes out. Kevin makes vague shushing sounds and continues stroking his hair as Connor tries to close his eyes and breathe, in and out, out and in. It rattles his bones. He’s sobered up, that’s for sure. Most of the alcohol probably came out with the disgusting lake water. He wonders if he swallowed any fishes.

“You’re a terrible swimmer,” says Kevin, and Connor wonders exactly how many moons ago Connor told him that, how long Kevin has been sitting on that tidbit of information, how much Kevin remembers about him. Does he catalogue information like Connor does? Does he file away every piece of information about Connor the way Connor obsessively does over Kevin? “And you almost died.”

“Yeah,” says Connor, distractedly, struck by a thought, by a vague childhood memory, and then he’s laughing. He’s laughing a lot, and it makes him choke, and he can see Kevin’s grim, bemused expression as Connor gets out whatever hysterical emotion has overcome him. “Are you going to sing to me?”

“What?”

“Or I should be singing to you, I suppose.”

“You’ve finally cracked,” says Kevin. “This has done you in. Did you get water in your brain? Is that how drowning works?”

“Like Ariel,” Connor elaborates. “And you’re Prince Eric.”

“ _You’re_ Prince Eric,” Kevin tells him, softly. “I’m Ariel. I saved you, remember?”

“Oh,” says Connor. “Right.”

He feels like his whole world has been turned upside down in a matter of minutes. He can’t have been under the water for too long, because he’s alive, he thinks. Ariel saved Prince Eric. The Prince was the damsel in that situation. There are cogs working in Connor’s brain, slow and torturous, but getting somewhere, making something stir, trying their best to come to the conclusion that Connor is so close to.

“At least you actually let me help you,” says Kevin, eventually, after a vaguely uncomfortable silence. “For once.”

“Didn’t have much choice,” says Connor, trying to make the world the right way around. Kevin’s face is upside down as he peers down at him. It’s half-dark, enough that makes Connor brave. Darkness is where Connor _thrives._ He’s used to it, by now.

He reaches up and touches Kevin’s face, the way he’s pictured a thousand times, and it all comes down to this. It was all prophetic, he thinks, and knows there’s a joke in there somewhere. Everything has led up to this moment; finally, _finally_ saved by Elder Price, finally the damsel he’s struggled, worked so hard not to be. Maybe he should play it out, let it follow its natural course. He realises that Kevin is breathing erratically.

“Are you okay?” he asks, fingers scraping over stubble. “Did you really jump in after me?”

“Obviously,” says Kevin, giving him a funny, upside down frown. “What, was I supposed to just let you die?”

“My hero,” Connor tells him, eyes sliding shut, relying on sense memory to map out the plains of Kevin’s cheeks, his nose, his jaw. He delirious. This is a _terrible_ idea.

“Yeah, well,” says Kevin, sounding rather strangled. It makes Connor want to smile, but that’s a lot of effort. “I was sent here to save people, after all.”

That does make Connor laugh, then, and it’s less painful than last time. He still doesn’t move, though. He’s too far gone, and Kevin’s lap is comfortable, if very wet, and it takes him a moment to realise he’s shirtless.

“Why are you shirtless?”

“Clothes drag you down,” Kevin shrugs. “That really isn’t what you should be thinking about right now.”

He’s still stroking his hair, hasn’t stopped, fingers working methodically. Connor doesn’t think that Kevin realises he’s doing it. He untangles a knot that makes Connor wince.

“I’m sort of always thinking about that,” says Connor, and can barely find it in himself to care that he just said that, against his own will, hearing the words but not noticing his mouth moving.

“Oh,” says Kevin. “You’re delirious. We should find Gotswana.”

“I’m not,” Connor’s voice insists. “Well, maybe a little. But drunk minds speak sober thoughts.”

Kevin is quiet for a long, long time.

“Don’t pass out,” he tells Connor, softly, softer than he’s ever spoken to him before. It’s a low noise, and distinctly less whiny than usual. Connor’s bones ache. His lungs ache. His heart aches. Connor blinks his eyes open, not quite aware of his surroundings, not realising he was falling asleep.

“Stop stroking my hair, then,” Connor tells him. “It’s making me sleepy.”

“I think it was the _almost dying_ part of the evening, actually,” says Kevin, but he moves his hands anyway. Connor rolls off him and breathes a sigh of relief; a moment of clarity, no longer feeling the electric pulsing under his skin in the spots that Kevin’s been touching. He just told him that he thinks about him shirtless a lot. Good _God._

“This is the worst birthday ever,” he says.

“It’s not technically your birthday anymore,” says Kevin. “Reckon you can walk?”

“Yeah,” says Connor, pushing himself off the ground. “I’m Elder McKinley. I can do anything.”

Kevin seems to appreciate the sentiment.

“Right,” he says. “Except for not scaring the shit out of me constantly.”

“Like you care,” says Connor. He knows he’s made a mistake immediately, because Kevin stops in his tracks.

“You know that’s not true,” he says, quietly, all soft again. “Even you aren’t this stubborn.”

Connor doesn’t really know what to say.

“I care about you a lot,” says Kevin. “I wouldn’t have jumped into the lake if it were anyone else.”

“Liar,” says Connor, because he is. Kevin would jump in after anyone. That’s kind of his thing. He loves playing the hero. That’s pretty much the root cause of all of Connor’s problems.

“I’m not lying about the first bit,” says Kevin, turning to face Connor. He stands there, awkwardly, fidgeting, scratching his wrists in that nervous way he does.

“You didn’t kiss me,” says Connor, stupidly. Maybe he did get water in his brain. But he almost died, and he’s getting old, so he’s throwing caution to the wind. _Fuck it,_ his brain says. Life’s too short. “You kissed everyone else.”

“I know,” says Kevin, and Connor can’t stop staring into those stupid, beautiful eyes and how they shine with a thousand emotions that Connor couldn’t even begin to decipher. “But I can’t kiss you now. Your lips are blue.”

Connor wants to say: that’s a great reason to kiss me. The best reason. _Warm them up,_ says his brain. But Connor can recognise an out when he sees one, and decides to let Kevin take it. It would only end up in heartbreak, anyway, and Connor has been through quite enough for one night. So he doesn’t say anything, just takes Kevin’s hand and starts walking.

“Watch where you’re going,” says Kevin, as if Connor isn’t always going to be watching where he’s going from now on until the end of time. When his mind slips out of its perfectly positioned place, he can hear water in his ears and finds it hard to swallow. “We’re finding Gotswana. You could still die, you know.”

“That’s very comforting,” says Connor, feeling like he’s about to choke on air. “Thank you.”

Kevin just squeezes his hand as Connor holds onto it for dear life.

 

**+1.**

It takes Connor a long time to get over the drowning incident. He’s not sure he’ll ever be over it. 

“Hey,” says Kevin, slipping through the door into his room. Connor has taken up residency in Kevin’s bed until further notice. Sometimes Cunningham is there, sometimes he isn’t. Nobody really says anything about it, other then some furtive eyebrows that Connor watches through hollow eyes in the mornings.

“Hello yourself,” says Connor, removing his head from under the blankets where he’s currently hiding.

Kevin is the only person Connor really wants to talk to. He wonders vaguely when this happened, and it must be somewhere in between being so sick he was possibly dying and the _actual_ near-death experience. He never would have thought that he’d be craving Elder Price’s company. Not even to admire him, or watch him appreciatively, or fantasise about him shirtless or anything. Just to talk to. Just to sit there quietly with.

He doesn’t push anything, or press any of Connor’s buttons. It’s unusual but not unwelcome.

“I have a question,” says Kevin, sitting down on the end of the bed. Connor makes grabby hands until Kevin gets the hint and lies down next to him.

“Shoot,” says Connor.

“Did you see God? It’s been bothering me and I didn’t know how to ask.”

“Oh,” says Connor, and really thinks about it, even though he hates it, because Kevin asked him to. He’d do a lot more for Elder Price than he’s ever let on. He’ll think about the rushing water and how it was still dripping out of his ears days after, about swallowing the river water, breathing it into his lungs. He’ll think about the hyperthermia and how he blacked out and how scared he was. He’ll do that for Kevin. He wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. “No, I didn’t.”

Kevin makes a vague humming sound. He’s fidgeting with his wrists again, scratching them nervously, until Connor wraps his hand around his wrist to stop it. He turns his head to look at the side of Kevin’s face, how Kevin is looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t turn to look back at him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” says Connor. The _now you’re here_ goes unspoken, but he thinks Kevin understands what he’s trying to say anyway. “Not great, but. Better.”

“I have another question,” says Kevin, and this time he does turn to look at him, cheek pressed against the pillow, and those _eyes_ are just for him, just for Connor. Connor knows that he doesn’t look at anybody else like that. He’s been watching.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Kevin. “Are you finally gonna let me help you?”

Connor can’t help it - he smiles cheek to cheek, teeth and all. Kevin looks momentarily startled before smiling back, his smallest, most private smile. Just a quirk of the lips, one upturned corner, and his eyes seem to sparkle, even though Connor knows that’s a stupid thought before he’s even processed it.

“Yeah,” says Connor. “Yeah, okay.”

“Cool,” says Kevin. “First we’re going to get you out of bed. And then you’re going to talk to someone.”

“I hate talking,” says Connor. “You know that. _Opening up_ isn’t really my strong suit.”

“Listen,” says Kevin, and for once Connor actually does. Funny how things change. Two years ago he was a heterosexual Mormon, after all. “Something - happened to me, a long time ago now. And I never talked to anybody about it. Ever.”

This has definitely piqued his interest. He knows his curiosity must be plastered all over his face, because Kevin continues without prompting. Either that, or he just likes the sound of his own voice. Could go either way.  

“The General,” he says, and his eyes flicker away from Connor’s for just a moment. “Well. I thought I was going to die, too. I know how you feel.”

“Really?” says Connor, and hates how eager his voice sounds.

“Yeah,” Kevin sighs. “Yeah. It sucks, I know. But - and I know this sounds like terrible advice, but you just have to deal with it. Suck it up and move on. Hakuna Matata.”

“Only you would make a Disney reference in this situation,” says Connor, and doesn’t think about how he referenced the Little Mermaid two minutes after coughing up fish guts. Kevin doesn’t mention it. Connor is, surprisingly not for the first time, extremely, overwhelmingly grateful for Kevin Price’s existence. Instead, he just loops two of his fingers with Connor’s and doesn’t break eye contact.

“Talk to someone,” says Kevin.

“I’d rather just talk to you,” says Connor. Kevin barks out a laugh.

“That’s a first,” says Kevin. “You hate me.”

“I don’t,” says Connor. “You know that by now.”

“I do,” says Kevin, scratching his wrists again. “Okay. You can talk to me about it.”

Connor wonders if this is a medical condition. Falling in love with the person who saved you.

“Do you think I like you just because you saved me?”

“No,” says Kevin. “No, I think you’ve liked me for a very long time.”

Maybe Kevin isn’t as stupid as Connor thought. He lets his facade slip, every now and then. Like now. Open and honest and vulnerable and smarter than Connor ever gave him credit for.

“I’ve been having these - I don’t know, fantasies,” says Connor. “For a while now. About you.”

Kevin doesn’t say anything, but Connor thinks that the emotion he can’t identify in Kevin’s eyes might be affection. Good Lord.

“I made all these scenarios,” Connor continues. “About you being a prince, and me being this damsel in distress, and you have to come and save me. You know, like, fire breathing dragons - stop looking at me like that, this is embarrassing enough - and wicked step mothers and stuff. And you, all suited up, riding in your noble steed, and you come and whisk me off my feet.”

Kevin doesn’t say anything. It’s as humiliating as it is nerve wracking, watching Elder Price’s eyes flit back and forth between his, like he’s unsure how to make eye contact.

“And I fucking hate Disney,” Connor adds.

That - oh, that’s a _smile,_ thinks Connor, a little in awe as Kevin’s face splits into two with a shit eating grin that Connor kind of (see also: definitely, one-hundred-percent would like nothing more) wants to bite off. He has so many teeth. One of them, Connor notices for the first time - and oh, who would have thought, at this point, there would be anything about Elder Price that Connor hadn’t stored away in his mental catalogue of all things Kevin? - that one of his bottom teeth is a little crooked.

“Your tooth is crooked,” says Connor.

“Guess I’m not so perfect after all,” says Kevin.

“I guess not,” says Connor.

It feels good, to watch Kevin step down from the pedestal Connor placed him on, the one he loves and loathes all at once, into his space, onto his level.

“I don’t want to be a princess,” says Connor.

Kevin looks at him for a long, long time, his fingers fidgeting around Connor’s. Connor is tense, waiting for his reaction, waiting to see where Elder Price wants this conversation to go.

“Is that,” he says, eventually. “Is that what all of this has been about?”

“What?”

“Oh my God,” says Kevin. “Heavenly Father, it’s like you live on a different planet sometimes.”

“Uh,” says Connor, shifting awkwardly.

“I don’t see you like that,” says Kevin, and Connor can hear the confusing smile in his voice. “That’s not -- oh, you idiot. You act like you know everything but you just, you _just._ Don’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

Kevin, with that familiar, thrilling glint in his eye, sits up on one elbow and watches Connor’s face for a while. Connor watches his back.

“Considering,” he says, after a painfully long time. “That I’m not particularly interested in princesses, it would be very confusing if you were one.”

Connor doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, because he knows that tone of voice, he knows that Kevin is about to do something spectacular and ridiculous and ill-advised, and true to form, he does something spur of the moment, consequences be damned.

It’s a lovely kiss. He’s fantasised every which way they could have done this, how it would go, but it was never so quiet, so soft, in the sleepy comfort of the blankets around them. It’s like all of Kevin’s energy is focused solely on him, solely on his mouth, all that enthusiasm channelled into his tongue. It’s too much and not enough, needs _more_ of him, and presses back. He gives as good as he gets.

It’s funny, because Connor can’t compare this to a single one of his fantasies. Elder Price is a ken-doll in those, a puppet controlled by Connor’s imagination, but Kevin is Kevin. He has stubble that scratches his cheeks and he kisses quite badly, but he’s learning pretty quickly, and he keeps breathing too heavily onto his face because he doesn’t know when to pull away and he’s putting his hands in spots of Connor’s waist that are painfully ticklish and well, he just doesn’t know what he’s doing. Elder Price presses Connor into the mattress; Kevin flips them over, making Connor straddle his hips, putting Connor in charge, wanting to feel how much Connor wants _him._ He’ll oblige.

Connor has never really believed in happy endings, has never thought to ask for one. But he figures it’s not always about saving the day, there’s not always an obstacle to overcome, nobody has to be a hero or a villain, a happy ending can just be - this. Elder Price’s tongue curling into his mouth, lazily, like they have all the time in the world; Kevin’s hand on his knee under the table the next morning, drifting over to his thigh. It can be Kevin’s arms wrapped around him from behind, cheek squished against Connor’s back by the fireside, where everyone can see. Connor closes his eyes and imagines something new, something he hasn’t considered before; coffee dates and airplane sex and apartment hunting and lazing under the air conditioning in the summer. He imagines holding Kevin’s hand walking down the sidewalk and showing him off to the world. He’s no prince - far from it, really - but he is Elder Price, and all things considered, that’s kind of the next best thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you're so inclined, please leave a comment or message me over on tumblr @neverbirds!


End file.
